


Like a Fiddle

by brinnanza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Blow Job, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five instruments Sherlock can play adeptly and one he's just learning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Fiddle

1\. Lestrade

Sprawled out on the sofa, Sherlock is texting furiously and muttering to himself. “Wrong again. What a blundering idiot. Of course it wasn't the sister. Anyone with _eyes_ could deduce that but of course I'm dealing with _London's finest_.” His voice trails off into incoherent grumbling. 

John's watching him over the top of his newspaper, an eyebrow raised. “Problem?” he asks good-naturedly. 

Sherlock's head snaps up as if he had forgotten John was there. “What? Oh, yes. Lestrade thinks it's the sister. No matter, he'll have me at the crime scene in five minutes.” He returns to his texting.

John hears a police siren. 

“Of course he sends someone to do his dirty work. He should know I don't do police cars.” He sends one last text (John is sure he's telling Lestrade what Sherlock's just told him) then leaps up, tucks his mobile in his pocket and grabs his coat. “Coming?” he asks, and John puts down the newspaper. As if the newspaper could possibly be more interesting than Sherlock in action.

They catch a cab because of course Sherlock already knows where they're going. Sherlock explains the circumstances of the murder on the way and when they arrive at an ordinary-looking house with police tape around the carport, Sherlock strides over to the police tape, nods at Donovan (“Freak,” she says by way of greeting) then continues over to the body, John hurrying to keep up.

Lestrade is standing next to the body, a mid-thirties woman, heavyset, divorced and remarried, no children, drinking problem. He says as much to Lestrade without a proper look. Lestrade doesn't even bother to ask how he knows.

“You said it wasn't the sister?” Lestrade inquires and Sherlock ignores him, getting down on his knees for a full inspection. Clean fingernails. No defensive wounds. There wasn't a struggle. He waves John over.

“Cause of death?” Lestrade opens his mouth to answer, but Sherlock interrupts, saying, “Yes I _know_ you've got people and it's probably Anderson but once in a while I like to have a competent person ascertain cause of death.”

John bent down next to him, his shoulder rubbing against Sherlock's. John feels a strange warmth there but does his best to ignore it and any other strange butterfly-like feelings he might be having. This is Sherlock, who's married to his work. Also, there's a dead body.

John ducks his head, examines the head, neck, arms. He runs gloved fingers gently over the woman's scalp, picks up and inspects her hand, leans over to check her shoulder. “Blunt force trauma,” he tells Sherlock. “Single blow. Back of the head. Doubt she saw it coming.”

“I had surmised as much.” John starts to protest—if he already knew what the hell did he ask John for—but Sherlock interjects a “Second opinion,” in John's general direction. Sherlock does a visual sweep of the immediate area then stands up suddenly. “You'll find,” he says as he strides over to grassy area just outside the concrete, “she was crouching when she was hit. Not standing. Her assailant is much shorter than she is.” Donning gloves, he rummages in some loose dirt and pulls up a small metal toy truck, heavy and solid. “And here's your murder weapon.”

“Brilliant,” said John. “How'd you know she was crouching?”

“Footprint,” said Sherlock. “She'd been in the mud. Bigger indents in the front—she was balancing on the balls of her feet.” To Lestrade, he said, “I trust that's enough to make your arrest?” Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock continued, “and in the future, do refrain from calling unless your case is actually interesting.” He turned on his heel, beckoned to John, and strode out of the crime scene.

 

2\. Murderers

The black car comes around the corner and Sherlock takes off running. Once John's brain realizes they are chasing now, John follows. Sherlock's already several paces ahead of him, and John curses Sherlock's long legs. The car turns a corner and Sherlock makes a sharp right a block before. John sprints after him down the alleyway but when he comes out the other side, Sherlock has disappeared.

“Damn it.” John pulls out his mobile, fires off a quick text ( _Where the hell'd you go? JW_ ) and glances around for possible routes Sherlock might have taken. He spots another alley a block up so he heads for it, hoping the car's gone around the other side of the block so Sherlock can intercept it.

He's halfway down the second alley when John realizes he _did_ catch up to the car and its occupant is currently at the end of the alley, brandishing a knife at Sherlock. Both men turn their heads to see John approaching. The assailant takes advantage of Sherlock's momentary distraction to lunge, wrapping an arm around his neck and holding the knife to his throat.

“I suggest you stay back, John. Wouldn't want any unfortunate consequences.”

John has to bite back a mirthless bark of a laugh. “Unfortunate consequences?” he says incredulously. Only Sherlock would consider his exsanguination in a dirty alleyway an “unfortunate consequence”. John instinctively reaches for a pistol, only it's not there and John's not currently packing anything he might call a weapon. He forces himself to stay calm even as he feels the rush of adrenaline. He puts his hands up and says to the man holding Sherlock hostage, “Let's not do anything drastic.”

Sherlock smirks—actually _smirks_ because the great Sherlock Holmes is never rattled—and says to John, “Bit late for that. Seems our friend here's already done something drastic. Isn't that right?”

The man tightens his grip on Sherlock and growls, “You shut your mouth.” 

“Sherlock,” John says a little desperately. “Don't irritate someone who's got a knife to your throat.”

“Nonsense,” says Sherlock. “He's used to being irritated. That's why he killed his mother. She probably had it coming with all the comments and the digs and the jibes.” He looks thoughtful for a moment and John's pretty sure he feels his heart stop. Leave it to Sherlock to insult someone with the upper hand.

To John's immense surprise, however, the man releases his grip on Sherlock and spins him around. “You take that back,” he roars. “You don't know Mummy!” Sherlock uses this moment to his advantage and kicks the knife out of the man's hand before delivering a sharp blow to the neck that makes him crumble immediately.

Sherlock steps back, brushes his hands against each other and says briskly, “Should let Lestrade know we've got his murderer.” He nudges the knife further away from the unconscious body on the ground, but John knows enough about anatomy to know he'll be out for a while.

Sherlock texts Lestrade their location and John's not sure if he wants to slug Sherlock for being so completely, ridiculously reckless or hug him because he didn't get stabbed. He settles for neither and shouts, “You could have been killed.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replies calmly. “I knew he'd want to see the face of the person who insulted Mummy dearest.” He smooths his hands over his coat then leans against the brick wall.

John's not really sure how to respond to that. He's not sure he can be sure of anything with Sherlock being so impossibly eager to put his life at risk and his own strange desire to smack Sherlock and then immediately snog him senseless. He chalks it up to adrenaline.

3\. The Violin

It's a lazy Sunday between cases and Sherlock's plucking at his violin while John reads the newspaper. After a few more moments of dithering, Sherlock seems to finally decide a tune and strikes up something fast with a lot of notes. John vaguely recalls this piece; Paganini, he thinks Sherlock had told him. 

It's not a tremendously long piece, so Sherlock starts up another one, similar in style. He's gone through three such pieces before John realizes that he's no longer reading the paper but rather considering Sherlock's long, nimble fingers. John imagines Sherlock can put those skilled fingers to other, better uses. 

John suddenly notices that the music has stopped and Sherlock is staring at him. John coughs and adjusts his paper. Now is probably not the best time to be contemplating the uses of his flatmate's fingers. 

Apparently satisfied that John is no longer behaving oddly, Sherlock returns to the violin. John manages to keep his paper in place this time, but he's no longer reading it. He's just listening, faintly amazed at the rich sounds Sherlock is able to coax out of that instrument. Something in the back of his head wonders what sounds Sherlock would be able to coax out of other things.

4\. Mrs. Hudson

After standing in front of the open fridge for several long moments, Sherlock declares to no one in particular, “We're out of milk.”

“Feel free to get some,” answers John from the other room, not looking up from his book. He hears the refrigerator close and then Sherlock is standing in front of him, peering down from under those long, dark lashes.

John tries not to think about those lashes or that mouth or—anything about him really, especially while he's wearing pajama pants as thinking too long about really any of Sherlock's attributes will result in a reaction he's not really willing to share at this point. He lowers his book (just in case) and returns Sherlock's steely gaze.

“We're also out of tea,” Sherlock says. 

“That is indeed a conundrum,” says John. “Funnily enough, they sell tea at the same place they sell milk.” He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. He finds he's frequently raising an eyebrow to Sherlock.

In response, Sherlock turns around sharply. “No need for that,” he says over his shoulder as he exits the flat.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson shows up with milk, a box of tea bags, and a tin of biscuits. John just sighs.

 

5\. John's (password-protected) laptop

“Your laptop is _right there_ ” John exclaims, gesturing at the table barely a meter from Sherlock's head. “You could probably even reach it with those gangly arms!”

“Yours was right here,” says Sherlock plainly. John scowls and crosses his arms. At this point, he should not find Sherlock's incredibly laziness surprising but without fail, Sherlock manages to surprise him.

“Mine was password protected!” Not that that would stop Sherlock, but John would like to think his password wasn't so simple that breaking it was easier than reaching for Sherlock's own computer. Unfortunately, John knows it isn't.

“'Sherlockshouldusehisowndamncomputer' is not a very good password.” John sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, sits down in the chair across from Sherlock's sofa. 

“What was so important you couldn't use a computer _one meter_ away from your head?” 

There's a moment before Sherlock answers and John's not sure he wants to know. He prepares himself for the wince he knows he's going to pull. Sherlock has a curious look on his face and John knows he's trying to decide whether to lie or not. After a moment, Sherlock appears to decide on what John hopes is the truth until he hears it: “Your browser history.”

John's actually speechless for a moment. He racks his brain to remember what he'd been doing on that computer, then realizes and flushes a deep shade of pink. “What—why--” he splutters indignantly, face growing hotter as he remembers that not only is his immediate browser history porn but despite his constant insistence that he's straight, it's gay porn and it happens to feature a tall, skinny, black-haired male.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, remembering, “I deleted my browser history” For this exact reason, he recalls, knowing Sherlock liked to break into his computer. And because he really didn't want to remember later that he'd been having a wank thinking about someone not only male but in the next room.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.“Not very well.”

John tries to push down the panic he feels rising. “That is—what--Why are you going through my history anyway? That's—that's a huge invasion of privacy.” He suddenly recalls that he can, in fact, move and he dashes across the room and snatches his computer away from Sherlock.

“I had a hunch,” answers Sherlock with something like a mischievous glint in his pale eyes.

 

+1. John

John swallows. “What kind of hunch?” Sherlock looks almost predatory as he sits up and moves toward John. Sherlock doesn't answer, but he does get very close to John. Sherlock's face is inches from his own, and he can feel the warm breath of air when Sherlock exhales. John is pretty sure he's not actually breathing at the moment.

“Sherlock?” John manages, even though this is so close, so incredibly close, and it's all John can do not to bridge the gap. He takes a step backwards and hits a wall. He wills Sherlock to stay where he is because if he gets any closer he's going to be able to feel what kind of effect he's having on John. Sherlock is married to his work and John didn't even _want_ to proposition Sherlock the day after they met, but now, now everything's different but surely Sherlock isn't any different.

But Sherlock is so close already, then he steps forward again, millimeters away from John's face and this _is_ different. Because Sherlock's brilliant and observant and can break into the web history John swears he deleted. And Sherlock's not running or grimacing or explaining that while he's flattered, John is going to have to leave now.

Instead, Sherlock exhales slowly. John closes his eyes. And Sherlock's lips ghost over his own.

John's eyes fly open and his mouth opens a little too. Sherlock looks suddenly hesitant, leaning away, but suddenly John finds his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, one hand fisted in his hair. Sherlock breaks away long enough to smirk and say, “I see my hypothesis was correct,” and then it's lips and teeth and tongues. And it's messy and their teeth clink together and Sherlock bites just a little too hard. But then he closes the space between them, presses his hips against John, and when John feels the bulge in the front of Sherlock's trousers against his own, a groan escapes. He arches his hips up, seeking friction.

Then fingers are flying at buttons and John's apparently developed a tremor so Sherlock pops the rest of the buttons of his shirt and then those deft fingers of his make quick work of John's shirt as well, and then _finally_ , there's skin against skin.

John wraps his arm around Sherlock, fingernails digging into his back. Sherlock is mouthing the space between his shoulder and his neck and he moans. He ruts against Sherlock and he's not sure he's going to make it long enough for what he wants. Sherlock makes a keening noise and John reaches for the button on his trousers, opens the zip, shoves Sherlock's trousers and pants out of the way. Sherlock bats at John's hands and gets his trousers and pants off as well. 

There is a brief pause in which they just look at each other. Some distant part of John's brain is convinced this is a dream (and it makes a good argument since he's been having plenty of similar dreams lately). He reaches out to touch Sherlock's chest and then they're pressed together again. John thinks Sherlock moved first, pinning him to the wall with his whole body.

And then, oh, their cocks are rubbing together in just the right way. Sherlock takes John in hand, stroking slowly, twisting at the top. John's head tips back, his eyes closed. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he mumbles. Sherlock swipes his thumb over the head, spreading pre-cum down the length. John isn't sure how much longer his legs are going to hold him up. He reaches for Sherlock, but Sherlock bats his hand away then slides to his knees.

Sherlock's mouth is warm and wet and his tongue is licking little lines up and down the shaft. Then he runs the flat of his tongue along John's cock and John is boneless, moaning, mumbling, “Fuck—oh, Sher—lock nnngg. Gonna—gonna come...” Sherlock doesn't move, keeps sucking with that wonderful mouth of his and then John feels a slender finger rubbing at his arse and he comes, vision whiting out. 

When he regains his senses, he's somehow ended up on the floor, and Sherlock's looking at him expectantly. “ _God_ Sherlock,” John moans. “You're bloody amazing.” He gets up and knocks Sherlock back onto the floor before climbing on top of him. He presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips, his cheek, his eye. Sucks on his neck, hands roaming. This is Sherlock underneath him, writhing and moaning and John's pretty sure he's the luckiest guy ever because anyone who wouldn't want this is mad. John scoots down, kissing Sherlock's chest and stomach and navel on the way down. He settles himself between Sherlock's legs and takes an experimental nibble of his inner thigh. John's rewarded with a groan, “please,” a hand grasping at his shoulder. 

John pulls back as pain shoots through his shoulder and down him arm. “Ah, sorry,” he says, moving the arm to try and dull the pain. 

Sherlock sits up, kisses the shoulder lightly. “Sorry,” he murmurs against the skin. “Sorry.” More soft kisses. 

John pulls Sherlock up and kisses him, tongue sliding along the seam of Sherlock's lips until he opens them. Their tongues slide against each other and Sherlock moans into John's mouth and reaches for his cock.

John stops him, replaces the hand with his own. He knows the mechanics of how this works and he knows what he likes. He strokes Sherlock slowly, experimentally, then moves back down Sherlock's body. He licks a stripe up Sherlock's cock. He tastes like skin, mostly, a little salt, and a little something John can't identify. He's not really sure what he's doing, but if the pleading noises Sherlock's making are any indication, he's on the right track. 

John takes Sherlock into his mouth, taste every bit his tongue can reach around Sherlock's cock. He moves up and down, sliding Sherlock's cock in and out of his mouth. John hits a funny angle and the head brushes against the roof of his mouth. He thinks that feels strange but Sherlock is moaning, “John, oh god, John,” so he does it again. 

Sherlock's moans turn wordless and then he says, “I'm gonna—come—ung... You don't have to.. Ah!” John runs his tongue up and down once more then pulls back, releasing Sherlock's cock with a pop. Sherlock reaches down, wraps his long fingers around his cock then pulls once, twice, and he's coming.

Most of it lands on Sherlock's stomach but a bit gets in John's hair. He sits back, waits for Sherlock's breathing to slow. Sherlock sits up then, and John is overwhelmed with the urge to grab his hand. He laces their fingers together.

“Sorry,” says Sherlock, nodding at John's hair. John shrugs. “I hope that was... um, adequate.” 

John's not used to Sherlock looking shy. “It was amazing. And did I, uh...?”

“Equally amazing.” 

John leans forward, kisses Sherlock softly. “So this hunch of yours...” he begins after a moment, but then can't think of how to respond since at this point, his brain's mostly goo anyway.

John thinks there's a faint blush on Sherlock's cheeks when he says, “I wasn't sure if it was... mutual. So I tested my hypothesis and I wasn't sure of the conclusion until you didn't run away.” John tips his head forward so his forehead is resting against Sherlock's.

John remembers Sherlock playing Paganini. Remembers the beautiful music and Sherlock's quick, nimble fingers. He wonders if Sherlock knows the music he's pulled out of John. Maybe a little unsteady and maybe a little messy, but John was confident they would both improve with practice. And oh, the music they could make.


End file.
